Though swift the days flow from her day,
No
one has left her day unnamed:
We know what light broke from her ray
On
us, who in the truth proclaimed

Grew brother with the stars and powers
That
stretch away—­away to light,
And fade within the primal hours,
And
in the wondrous First unite.

We lose with her the right to scorn
The
voices scornful of her truth:
With her a deeper love was born
For
those who filled her days with ruth.

To her they were not sordid things:
In
them sometimes—­her wisdom said—­
The Bird of Paradise had wings;
It
only dreams, it is not dead.

We cannot for forgetfulness
Forego
the reverence due to them,
Who wear at times they do not guess
The
sceptre and the diadem.

With wisdom of the olden time
She
made the hearts of dust to flame;
And fired us with the hope sublime
Our
ancient heritage to claim;

That turning from the visible,
By
vastness unappalled nor stayed,
Our wills might rule beside that Will
By
which the tribal stars are swayed;

And entering the heroic strife,
Tread
in the way their feet have trod
Who move within a vaster life,
Sparks
in the Fire—­Gods amid God.

—­August 15, 1894

By the Margin of the Great Deep

When the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty
skies,
All
its vapourous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam
With their magic flood me through the gateway of the
eyes;
I
am one with the twilight’s dream.

When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky
mood,
Every
heart of man is rapt within the mother’s breast:
Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude,
I
am one with their hearts at rest.

From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and love,
Strayed
away along the margin of the unknown tide,
All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far
above
Word
or touch from the lips beside.

Aye, and deep, and deep, and deeper let me drink and
draw
From
the olden Fountain more than light or peace or dream,
Such primeval being as o’erfills the heart with
awe,
Growing
one with its silent stream.